


Tomorrow's Another Day But Let's Focus On Today (DaveKatWeek 2017)

by Miriage



Category: Homestuck
Genre: All Stories Compiled Here, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, AnimalCrossingStuck, Artist Dave Strider, Cat Karkat Vantas, Complete, Cursed Karkat Vantas, Davekat Week 2017, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Human Karkat Vantas, M/M, Magically Appearing Baby, Mayor Dave Strider, Post-Canon, Target Employee Dave Strider, Therapist Dave Strider, finished work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-15
Updated: 2017-08-15
Packaged: 2018-12-15 19:17:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 20,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11812506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miriage/pseuds/Miriage
Summary: A collection of oneshots written for DaveKatWeek 2017. Compiled here for convenience.Day 1: Post-Canon "Baby Steps"Day 2: AU: "Target and the Troll"Day 3: Crossover-Animal Crossing: "Mayor Strider and the Black Cat"Day 4: Sadstuck: "You're You"Day 5: Leave it Up to Fate: "Shit.... Let's Be Parents"Day 6: Fluff: "A Slice of Key Lime Karkat Pie Please!"Day 7: Free Choice "Painting"





	1. Day 1: Post-Canon "Baby Steps"

**Author's Note:**

> So I participated in DaveKatWeek 2017 but only posted to tumblr (because I was shoveling these things out the day of each day.) It was super fun and I liked how I had a prompt to follow everyday! Anyway, I shoved them all here so others can read them. Hope I'm not pissing anybody at the DaveKatWeek tumblr by doing this.....

Baby steps.

Like every relationship there were baby steps.

At least, you called them baby steps. Karkat would probably call them something hilariously long, complicated, and only slightly annoying, or maybe wouldn’t even get the cultural reference at all and say something about how steps weren’t important when you had to learn how to fucking outrun a grub eating beast with only six stick legs that resembled broken toothpicks.

Whatever it was called though, it was baby steps.

* * *

It began when you and him were curled up on the couch together watching some shitty show (that did not have Jake’s ass on it thank you very much) and being all domestic and cute and “aww” and shit (“Shut up and go cuddle your own troll Rose.”) when it happened.

Like any good boyfriend (that’s what you were calling and you were “nope-ing” any other iteration of the term. You would’ve dabbed it out too but the last time you did that you had been suplexed you by your dabbing arm onto a table by none other than the other half of your relationship party. The student had truly become the teacher) you had started out the night with the “Let’s count how many shoulders we have” game (“Four Dave. There will always be four fucking shoulders no matter how many times we play this pathetic excuse for a red-but-is-so-pale-it’s-the-color-of-John’s-ass flirting game. Just put your fucking arm around me or I will bite you again.”) and now had your left arm draped against Karkat (you only received one bite from him when you did it this time. Nice.) You could’ve stayed there for hours, days, weeks, months and maybe one year, letting the television melt your brain and playing the “see if you could spot John flying in the sky” game (you were beating Karkat by four John’s) but the unfortunate reality was that you were but a man with a man sized body and man sized insides.

“Gotta take a piss babe. Make sure my spot doesn’t get taken.”

Karkat had rolled his eyes at you and told you that he would make sure the butt indentation on the couch wouldn’t be replaced by any other assholes’ ass (to which you replied that you were glad he was protecting the virgin markings of your rump’s couch crater from those who wished to sit away the “Mark of the Strider from the House of Strides.”) and you left him there with Ghost Butt Strider. When you came back though, that’s when the first of the many metaphoric baby steps “happened.” Because when you came back he was wearing your hoodie.

Your red hoodie.

He was practically drowning in it actually. The sleeves were too long, the front pockets made him look like he was had grown a womb for a baby marsupial like creature, and the hood was spilling over the sides of his shoulders as he pressed his back against the couch. All in all, he looked like a messed up little Red Riding Hood.

But he was still wearing your red hoodie.

* * *

It was after that that the steps of baby progression…progressed.

In your house-hive hybrid (you liked to call it the “HHH”) he began “borrowing” your clothes. He wore your red hoodies (“I’m cold and this was on the ground so it’s mine now.”) your red shirts (“It’s too hot to wear a fucking sweater Dave and I’m not bothering Kanaya on her day off with Rose.”) even your red pants (“…. I lost a bet okay Strider? Don’t give me that shitty ‘I-just-crapped-my-pants look!”).

At first you had believed all his excuses (including the “lost the bet one”) and you had maybe been a little kind of “shot through the heart” pleased (ecstatic) whenever you saw him wearing something of yours.

(Fine, it turned you on. There happy? You admitted it out loud. Whoop-Dee-Fucking-Do.)

But then you began to notice a pattern in the clothes he picked.

Karkat would ignore the black t-shirt of yours on the ground near the foot of your bed and instead wear the red one from the closet. He would get up from couch snuggles to grab your red hoodie from the kitchen where you left it even though there was blanket just underneath his ass. He would grab your red socks and pull them on, not even batting an eye when your better (more ironic) socks (with pictures of bananas with faces on it) were right under his nose.

He would grab every item of clothes of yours that was  _red_.

_Red. Red. Red._

* * *

He only wore this red (your red) at the HHH though. The “outside” Karkat still wore black. The darkest color. The Batman of colors. The lack of absorption of light color.

Black sweater, black pants, black shoes.

_Black. Black. Black._

Of course no one thought this was strange, weird, unusual, and/or mysterious. Karkat  _wore_  black and that was it. End of discussion. Over and out. This was who he is and what he was. Someone (some-troll you guess?) who wore black. Nothing unnatural here. No siree.

So it was only you who knew of the disturbances in the Karkat-force. It was only you who knew what he would do after entering the HHH. It was only you who got to see him, relaxed and sleepy eyed from a day of suggesting (shouting) instructions for New New New Can Town (he refused to let you call it “Can Town 3: Return of the Return of the Cans”) wearing your red t-shirt. It was only you who got to see him in his “Little Red Riding Karkat” hoodie persona, snuggled up against your arm as the two of you watched movies or played video games.

You didn’t make a comment on it though. You didn’t say the obvious (“You’re wearing red.”) or the “pretending-to-be-dumb” obvious (“So I noticed you’ve been wearing some of my clothes lately.”) or the punny obvious (“Well Karkat it looks like you’re  _red_ -y for movie night right? I hope this movie is just like that shitty book you  _red_.”).

You just scooped him up and buried your face in his neck like you always did because this was Karkat taking those steps. Those tiny, microscopic steps.

Those baby steps.

* * *

When your friends see him wearing red for the first time, it’s a mistake.

You were outside, watering your plastic plants (to keep up appearances because fuck it, you’re not Jade or Jake or whatever other J-like-entity who knew how to garden and grow a tyrannosaurus rex) when you’re attacked from both your pelvic region and your opposite pelvic region from two different attackers: John from an air assault and Jade from a ground assault. You roll your eyes as they have the audacity to laugh at you (you were not caught by surprise like they said you were) and you feel the words of the Strider forming on your tongue near your umami taste receptor when Karkat emerges from the HHH, looking sleepy and frazzled, wearing nothing but your red shirt and his boxers.

“I work my ass off every single fucking day from morning to when the sun goes to its fucking nocturnal rest and the one day I can actually close my pathetic eyes what do I get? Two idiots flying in from who knows where chatting like it’s a fucking wriggler’s sleep over.” he mumble-yells (aka: just says in a normal volume voice level.) He’s still mumble-yelling (aka: just talking) and doesn’t seem to care or notice anything unusual about himself as he leans against the doorframe of HHH in just his sleepwear.

But you notice.

You notice and a swell of panic suddenly manifests itself in you and you try to send a mental mind message to Karkat that consists of the words “red” and “boxers” and “change” because you don’t know if he knows or even think he knows he’s ready for this.

If he’s ready to be caught like this.

If he’s ready to be seen wearing this…. _red_.

* * *

Your hope of him receiving said message is stopped however when Jade complements him for his choice in sleepwear. Complements the shirt he was wearing.

Complements the  _red_  shirt he was wearing.

It’s a complement, yes, but it’s also a hidden “What the fuck are you wearing?” statement hidden behind giggle and glasses. It’s an acknowledgment of something you had been acknowledging but not acknowledging for…. some time now.

The emphasis on the words “red shirt” makes Karkat pause and look down at himself and the words “shit” and “abort” flashes across your mind (and probably Karkat’s too) as his morning crankiness is replaced by a morning look of suddenly awakened surprise.  He doesn’t say anything, just looks down at his shirt (your shirt) and stays looking at it for longer than a normal person should be looking at something and you’re forced to stand there and watch the gravity of the situation unfurl around you as an unexpected silence overcomes the four of you and you hope you are the only one who doesn’t feel the tension in said silence.

(But it’s there and you know John and Jade knows it’s there too. And it’s god-awful.)

John (of course it would be John wouldn’t it?) is the one who interrupts said silence, laughing nervously and breaking (destroying) the metaphoric “Don’t touch, Just Look” sign as he says that  _red_ looks good on him.

On Karkat.

On angry troll of the century.

On your boyfriend.

* * *

You expect Karkat to turn and run back inside. You expect him to word vomit his way out of the situation (hell you would’ve done that.) You half-expect him to burst into tears or shudders or blushes (or fire) or something.

But to your surprise, all you get (all  _he_  says) are the words,

“Thanks…I think it looks good too.”

* * *

The funny thing about baby steps is that they are jaunty and awkward, too much in this direction and not enough in that. They look like they could never turn into people steps or even oldhobble-y grandma steps. But soon enough they turn into steps.

The same goes for Karkat.

After being seen in red, it’s like he begins experimenting with wearing red  _outside._

Sometimes he’d wear a lot of red (his “a lot” being your t-shirt and hoodie) take ten steps away from the HHH only to turn back and change back into black. Other times he’d wear a little (red socks, hidden underneath his pant legs) and stay out all day. Sometimes, he’d throw on a (your) red baseball hat and walk hand-in-hand with you around New New New Can Town’s construction, other times he’d be wearing enough black to make him look like a lump of coal painted black then sprinkled with ashes that were also black.

He seesawed between these two for months, never comfortable with one or without the other. He’d stumble around grabbing clothes and mixing and matching. He’d spend hours looking in the mirror wearing one outfit only to change it at the last second. He’d pretend not to worry or care about how much or how little red he wore outside only to press himself against your back whenever someone looked his way.

He was figuring things out clumsily, embarrassingly slow, and utterly charmingly.

Just like fucking baby steps.

* * *

But one day, somehow, after jumping from metaphoric rock to metaphoric rock, Karkat manages to find something that makes you feel even more proud than his perfected surplexes:

He finds balance.

He finds a red-black color wearing comfortableness.

No, he doesn’t dare wear anything as bright and eye startlingly catching as his dancestor’s red sweater (you were actually relieved at this), but simple reds, your t-shirt with a black jacket or his t-shirt with your red hoodie, he wears, first nervously, then comfortably, then confidently.

He wears this combination as he addresses a large (cheering) crowd. He wears this combination when the two of you meet with your friends. He wears it when you convince him to hold onto you (tighter) as you fly through the air.

He wears it, not for you or your friends, but for  _himself_.

* * *

When he fastens a red tie, a bright red streak against a stygian colored shirt, the night you take him out for your anniversary dinner at a fancy-shamncy restaurant, it hits you full force that  _this_  is Karkat.

This is Karkat confident. This is Karkat unhindered. This is Karkat being himself.

This is him being free.

And it’s him looking like this, it’s him willingly wearing something so statement-like in a public, crowded, local place that you finally, _finally_ comment on it. On the red. On the color that once upon a time John had said looked good on Karkat. On the color you saw Karkat wear when it was just you and him. On the color he took baby steps to show to everyone.

On his color. On Karkat’s color.

You finally tell him what you thought all those weeks and days and hours and minutes ago, when it was just the two of you and he was buried in your hoodie:

“Red….” You begin as you reach out to Karkat to run a hand down his tie, “Looks great on you babe.”

(Because it does.)

Karkat smiles and lets you pull him close against yourself and lets you rub his back in a non-bro, totally romantic, and ironic form of intimate endearment.

“I know.” he whispers back. “I know that Dave.”

And you fucking love how he knows  _he knows_.


	2. Day 2: AU "Target and the Troll"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still hoping DaveKatWeek aren't mad at me....

Your name is Dave Strider and nothing, _nothing,_ good came out of working the late shift at Target.

 

For one thing, it was hella fucking lonely. Besides the stoners, homeless people, stressed and/or drinking soccer moms, and the obviously drunk college students, the crowd at Target near the hours of twelve A.M. were the types of people who made up Hell. And yes, you meant “Hell” with a capital “H.” Like it was a fucking country and not just the land of the forsaken and the eternally tortured.

But you needed the cash. You needed that sweet, sweet cash to pay for shit. That shit being college. That shit being the shit that was higher education. That shit being the shit that would later lead to more expensive shit but also to more shit that gave you shit.

(And yes, “shit wise” you were still talking about money.)

So yeah, main points: Target sucked and you needed money.

Thus your current situation of having to deal with the horsemen of the modern day apocalypse (soccer moms who needed to one up mom bitches named Brenda at the PT-fucking-A bake sale and stoners who thought the combination of frosting, mustard, pickles, and gluten free blueberry muffins was “the ambrosia of the gods”) was self-explanatory. You guess you should probably count yourself lucky that you have a job that didn’t require much besides standing around, reorganizing messed up shelves (it was definitely a drunk who thought it would be hella-fucking funny to move all the stuffed dogs from the kid’s section and make a doggy-orgy pile in front of the condoms. Though you had to give them props for the creative positions they placed the stuffed fluffed animals in), and explaining to people that no, there was no “manager” they could fucking speak to because you were the only one in the building but even so,

Being the only one working at Target was so,

So,

_So,_

Fucking,

Lonely.

At least…. until you met Karkat Vantas.

 

* * *

 

 

You first met Karkat when he was in the food section of the red bulls-eye superstore.

 

At first, you had immediately roped him into the top secret, members only, fifth group of twelve A.M. Target shoppers: “The goths trying to be goths while looking goth” group.

 

And hell, you couldn’t blame him.

 

His hands were shoved into black mitten-glove things, his legs were covered in the darkest pair of pants that ever dark-ed before, and his face was covered by a drawn up black sweatshirt hoodie.

His appearance threw you off a little (a lot) but none the less you could tell that the poor guy was confused as his head kept swerving from left to right and he was clutching tightly to the Target basket in his hands like it was his “please protect from the bad guys” shield. So, with confident (cautious) steps, you walked over to him and asked him if he needed help. You were surprised when he let out a fucking _yelp_ of all things and turned around so fast that the hoodie fell from his head.

It was only then that you realized he was in the sixth even more coveted group of Target goers who you only heard of in the legendary legends from the deepest, darkest, reaches of “This shit happened at work today” retail stories: Karkat Vantas was part of the “super rare midnight city party kid who somehow stumbled into a Target at a strip mall while still in full costume” group.

 

And you could totally tell that because he was dressed up like a fucking demon.

 

And not the sexy, red-hot, “Oh I’m so bad I look good”, demon. This was more of a “I was going for scary but accidentally ended up with _cute_ ” demon costume. With two-candy corn colored horns and gray painted on skin, Karkat looked more like he had popped out of an animated episode of “Monster High” (which was the shit shut up Dirk) than an R-rated movie.

“Cool costume.” Was all you said, trying to ease the “Sorry I scared you” tension from before (the guy was practically shaking) “What can I help you find this fine night-soon-to-be-morning?”

Karkat had looked you up and down nervously (with a surprised expression on his face for some fucking reason) before shoving his hand in his pocket to (shakily?) take out a crumpled list that he (even more shakily?) passed to you.

“Everything on this list.” he had muttered.

 

And that’s how it all began.

 

* * *

 

 

After that, Target nights had blended together and you didn’t see McNubs-not-scary-guy for the next few days.

 

(It was actually three weeks but you weren’t counting.)

 

But around near the haunting hour, there he was again, wearing all black and fake horns. Only difference was that he was in the book section instead of the food section.

“Do you need any help?” You asked, coming up from behind him (totally not because you recognized his jacket with the cancer sign and had been fucking curious about who he was and where he had come from for the past few weeks.) Just like before, troll-horns jumped and spun around all “Deer in the Headlights” by Owl City style, as if being talked to was equivalent to being zapped by an invisible electric fence (seriously how could people do that to their beloved pets? As effective as it was, if you were a dog with speaking abilities who was being shocked by an un-seeable force daily you would definitely complain about that to your human owners) and stared at you with big, wide, (gigantic?) eyes.

(And no, you were not staring into his eyes. Not that much at least.)

  
“Just…browsing.” he muttered (shakily?).

You had hoped to get more out of him (though what that “more” was you weren’t sure) but by his blunt, quiet tone you assumed it was your time to high tail it back to the cluttered toy section (some stoner had thought it would be funny to move the lube and hide it between boxes of Barbie’s) and continue with your night-day hybrid hours when you noticed a book in his arms.

A specific book in his arms.

 

You snorted and couldn’t help the laughter that trickled out of you ten seconds later because the irony was so deep you couldn’t handle it: a goth, costume kid reading a published Twilight fanficiton novel.

“Seriously? ‘Fifty Shades?’” you say. “Out of all the great titles this mythical land of pineapples and five-dollar fidget spinners can offer, you pick the one book that convinced single ladies everywhere that a feather was hot?”

 

And like that it was like a switch had flicked on because Karkat had “exploded.”

 

And you didn’t mean combustible liquid began flying everywhere, you meant that words and insults that you never thought was humanly possible poured out of his mouth like hot chocolate sauce down vanilla ice cream.

And you liked to think it was then that you two became “friends.”

 

* * *

 

 

Of course Karkat probably didn’t think you two were “friends.”

He probably saw you as that “Annoying Target fucktard who couldn’t leave people alone to buy their shit for one fucking second.” (Actually that was how he saw you as. He even told it to your face more than once.) But to you, Karkat was the one best thing to happen to you since your lonely Target hours had begun.

You liked how he would get all mad and stuff over the books the he proclaimed were “good” even though they looked hella fucking “not good.” You liked how he got all huffy when you caught him in the lube section staring confused at the dog-animal orgy he would sometimes stumble across (“Hot isn’t it nubby?” “Shut up. Will you please just shut the fuck up?”) You liked how he would stare longingly at the triple marked down toys in the kid’s section (you had caught him picking up and putting down one ironic Monster High doll that reminded you of him) and was tempted to even buy him a said triple marked down toy due to how many times you caught him in the aisle (it was only seven dollars and you could totally kiss an hour of minimum wage work away if it could get him to smile. You liked his smile. One time, after you had cracked a hyper-stellar joke to him, you even got him to fucking  _laugh_.)

But most of all, you liked when you and him moved out of the awkward “Leave me the fuck alone” stage and into the “Hey, there you are again” stage.

 

And after that, the “Hey, fancy seeing you here” stage. 

 

And after that, the “Hey, same time tomorrow?” stage.

 

And after that, the “Hey, do you want to see who could get to aisle eleven faster in a shopping cart?” stage.

 

(And you think he liked it to.)

 

* * *

 

The only thing “weird” about Karkat (after you stopped categorizing him into your mental ‘Target Goers’ groups) was that he always wore the same costume you had first initially saw him in: that same gray painted skin, that same candy-corn colored horns, and those same gloved hands.

 

Same, same, same.

 

You were confused as to _why_ he wore it (as there was no fucking way he was going to a costume party in the city every night) but you would always forget to ask him about. That or, when you did (“Another party today Vantas?”) he would always bristle (like a cat) and look nervous and quickly change the topic.

 

(“Why are these pups still humping here Dave? Seriously do your fucking job right.”)

 

It confused you to no end _why_ the costume topic of conversation made him so _fucking uncomfortable_ but you decided to ignore it because…. well…

You had gotten to the “I don’t want to make you feel things you don’t like feeling” stage of your relationship.

 

* * *

 

 

(It was soon after you realized you were in this stage that you also realized that you were in the super secret, golden, mini-but-harder-than-the final-boss stage of your guys’ relationship:

The “I think I hella fucking want to kiss your cute tiny face” stage.)

(And you think…. Karkat knew it too.)

 

* * *

 

 

Then one day, everything changed…And the Fire Nation didn’t even need to attack. In fact, if you were to blame any elemental “nation”, it would be the Water Nation.

 

* * *

 

 

It was one A.M. and you were pulling out of the parking lot, a night shift at Target completed and the memories of a certain Vantas dancing through your head (he was blushing like a red thunderstorm when you gave him the Monster High doll that you had hidden and bought when you weren’t on company time. You wished you had taken a picture) when the skies had opened its gaping butthole and in the next five seconds: rain.

Rain as in movie magic rain. Rain as in “Run and check the farmhouse Charlie!” rain. Rain as in the dogs and the cats were not only falling, they were falling while also having sex while also birthing more dogs and cats type of rain.

 

(On a side note, you were now stuck with that lovely mental image.)

 

You were driving, water splattering on your windshield, hoping and praying that the drive home would be quick and painless (and deathless, when you saw a figure (ten minute drive, one hour walk out of Target) walking on the side of the road.

 

It was the cancer jacket that gave him away.

 

You immediately pulled over and, jumping out of the car, swiftly grabbed onto Vantas, asking (screaming) at him what the hell he thought he was doing and where the hell he thought he was going.

You yelled-asked him if this was what he was doing every night because no, you weren’t an idiot and there was no fucking way he just happened to be “taking a stroll” because the strip mall was in the middle of fucking nowhere.

You yelled- _forced_ him into the car, telling him that you were taking him to your place to dry the fuck off.

 

* * *

 

 

The first thing you did when you got into your apartment was tell Vantas to strip (not the sexual kind) and take a shower because there was no way he was catching pneumonia in the House of Strides while Dr. Strider was back in said house. You were still a bit pissy (okay, a lot pissy) that you had caught him walking along the side of the road (as your silent car ride explained anything) but you weren’t going to let your ego get in the way of potential Vantas sick germs.

However, it only served to piss you off more when Karkat instead stubbornly shook his head and told you that he really, _really_ shouldn’t be here and that he was fine. “It’s not like rain is going to fucking kill me Dave,” he mumbled, looking down and tugging at his drenched clothes. “I should be getting home.’

 

Your response? “Bullshit.”

 

You practically dragged him to the bathroom (Karkat resisting the whole time) and had to physically sit on him as you switched on the shower. Working quickly (and using your flash steps to their fullest abilities) you managed to grab a towel and push Karkat’s hoodie off of him.

“I’m fine Dave! Get the fuck off of me and keep your hands to yourself!” Karkat was howling in your ear as you shoved said towel on top of his head and rubbed, hard, over his hair and face. He was squirming and you were pretty much straddling him against the toilet but there was no way you were letting him go unless he was stripped (again, not the sexual kind) and dried.

 

* * *

It was only when you removed the towel that you figured out why he was hella fucking resisting and why he was so squirmy. Why he was so desperate and why he was so uncomfortable.

Because when you pulled the towel back you realized his face was still gray.

Because when you brushed you hand over his hair and over his horns, you realized the horns weren’t just on his head.

 

They were fucking attached.

 

* * *

 

 

“I’m cursed.”

That’s what Karkat Vantas told you as he hugged one of your pillows close to his chest and refused to meet your gaze. His arms, no longer covered by black but free for the world to see, were gray. His legs, sticking out of a pair of your boxers were gray. The fingernails on his hands were chipped, as if the had been filed and chewed down like a wild animals’.

And his head still had two horns growing out of it.

 

“Oh.”

 

That was all that you said as you took in Karkat, wearing your clothes, in your house, sitting on your couch,

 

_“Oh.”_

 

Karkat laughed bitterly and you could see the pillow in his arms get squeezed tighter to his chest. “Yeah, pretty crazy right?” he said.

“Yeah.” you murmur.

The two of you stay silent as a solitary clock (that you thought was dead) ticks in the background somewhere, as if emphasizing each empty, uncomfortable, unfortunate beat of no sound.

 

* * *

 

 

“So um….” you begin to ask.

“How did I get cursed?” Karkat finished.

You nod and move your body closer to Karkat’s, hoping that he didn’t notice, as he (finally) looks at you (albeit sadly.) “You ever read ‘Beauty and the Beast’?” he asks.

You shake your head. “Nope.” you answer. “Watched the movie though. The original one with animations. Haven’t watched the one with home girl yet.” That makes Karkat snort.

“Seriously? You call Emma Watson ‘home girl’?” he asks and you can’t help but smile slightly.

“Yup. She and Emma Stone were neck-in-neck in the ‘Best Emma’ awards but there’s something that a good Hermione does for me that a dead Gwen Stacy can’t.”

Karkat’s eyes widen and you can see him physically choke on a gasp. “Gwen Stacy dies?!” he says shocked.

You nod (like the movie spoiling sadist you are). “And with it, the reboot of Spiderman.” you say.

Karkat groans and buries his head in his (your) pillow. “Another beautiful movie couple dead by the hands of writers.” he mumbles and you can’t help but laugh when he does.

When he lifts his head up, he’s smiling and calling you a dick.

(You were never more relieved to see that smile.)

 

* * *

 

 

“So…. modern day Beauty and the Beast?”

 

Karkat nods.

 

“And you got cursed to look like that?”

 

Karkat nods.

 

“All because you wouldn’t let a homeless guy into your apartment?”

 

Karkat nods.

 

“Huh….” you say looking at him. “So the basic gist is creepy homeless dude knocked at your door, you refused to let him in which, in my opinion makes fucking sense because hell I wouldn’t let a creepy guy into my living abode, and then creepy guy cursed you to look like that until…. Until what?”

Karkat blushes and looks away. “Dave you saw the movie.”

The realization dawns on you a second too late.

“Findtruelove.” Karkat says quickly the same second you say, “You cannot be serious.” Karkat nods again.

“Yup. One hundred percent serious in the fucking business here Dave. True love and other bullshit by the time I turn eighteen or I’m cursed ……f-forever.”

 

“Oh.”

 

The words basically fall from your mouth. In fact, you can _see_ the words basically fall from your mouth and you can feel yourself become a little warmer because _really how cliché is that?_ Your…. Karkat had to find true love and shit in order to break the curse on him that made him look like an adorable monster-not-monster.

_True love._

“How old are you-?” you begin to ask and there’s a second where you think Karkat can see the hopeful expression on your face because your leaning in a little closer to ask and-

He shakes his head.

“Dave,” he says sadly, “I’m twenty.”

 

Oh.

 

He looks at you and looks back down. “Yeah. Curse is permanent now Dave. Fucking over and out. I’m stuck looking like this for-fucking-ever. Stuck looking all weird and shit for the rest of my shitty existence. Romance is dead, you were right all along.”

 

Oh.

 

It’s silent between the two of you and that fucking clock begins to mock you again with its tick-ery. (You were going to murder that clock’s babies if it had the eggs to make said babies.)

 

* * *

 

 

“So….” You finally say, after the ticking makes you want to throw yourself into lava for the fourth time and Karkat’s frozen stiffness makes you want to hug him till he turns cherry red. “Does this mean…. I can’t….”

You swallow the lump in your throat and force your hands to stop shaking as you lay the one closest to Karkat on his leg, “Can’t…y’know….”

“…Ask you…out?”

It’s like the air gets sucked out of the room the fucking second you said that because Karkat looks up and gives you such a look that makes your insides melt and your heart go all ‘doki-doki-I-love-you” mode.

“…. what?” he asks, clearly shocked. “What did you just say?”

You gulp again and repeat yourself with what you could only hope was a “I’m fucking serious” look on your face, telling him that you wanted to ask him out. That you really _really_ wanted to ask him out. That you _really really really_ had been dying to _date_ him but hadn’t grown the metaphoric balls to do it for so fucking long. 

“I like you Karkat.” you say. “You have a shitty taste in books, you always ask if we have Tim-Tams even though Target doesn’t fucking supply them, your face lights up like Christmas whenever you find a new Monster High doll, your beating me by six points in the ‘Great Shopping Cart Race’, and you’re just so fucking _great_ and I really like you.”

Karkat is basically tearing up when you finish your talking spiel and you take this moment to lift your thigh touching hand and wrap it around his shoulder.

“I’m sorry this is coming two years too late but please Karkat Vantas, _please_ go out with me.”

 

He _is_ in tears as he says yes.

 

* * *

 

 

You wonder how long it had been stewing and building in Karkat. This, “I’m going to be alone forever” stewing.

This “No one will ever love me” stewing. 

This “I’m going to die alone” stewing.

(This part scares you the most. The thought of Karkat, alone at age eighty, thinking back on what could’ve been and sitting alone by a window sill.)

You can still sometimes see it in Karkat’s eyes when he thinks your not looking. When you get up to take a piss or grab more juice and find him with his (your) pillow in his hands being choked to death.

It’s in those moments when you pull him closer to you, when you kiss his horns then his hair then his cheek then his lips softly, that you hope he hears your unspoken words of _I love you._

 

* * *

 

 

Your name is Dave Strider and there was one good thing that came out of working the night shift at Target.

And that was meeting Karkat Vantas.


	3. Day 3: Crossover- Animal Crossing: "Mayor Strider and the Black Cat"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What? You never shipped yourself with an Animal Crossing character before? What do you mean they were all animals?! Me and Goldie were tight back in the day!

Your name is Karkat Vantas and the new mayor is so.

 

Fucking.

 

Annoying.

 

Seriously, in your whole nine lives you have never _ever_ met a person more talkative, more confusing, and more head-bashingly irritating than Dave Strider.

 

Of course, none of the _other_ villagers seemed to have a problem with Dave like you had. They were all pleased with the new mayor and enjoyed the new projects and buildings that Dave was completing, not to mention the publicity New Can Town was suddenly getting. (Although you had all agreed that the phallic shaped flag flying next to the Town Hall wasn’t exactly the best flag the town had ever had.)

 

But then again, none of the other villagers had to deal with seeing Strider every fucking day like you had to.

 

* * *

 

The second Dave entered “The Maryam Sisters” you immediately groan and try to hide behind your sewing machine.

The second of the Maryam sisters was long gone, (her prowess in design and sewing had allowed her to apprentice under the high fashion designer “The Condesce”) so it was up to you, Karkat Vantas the moody black cat, to take over and sew the patterns that Kanaya (your best friend who could literally be a terrifying “lone wolf” at times) developed.

Usually you didn’t really mind working side by side next to Kanaya everyday. Aside from John (an annoying cluckbeast-chicken who you swore only came in to make your claws catch on the fabrics) and Eridan (a snooty but well meaning stripedbeast skunk who came in only to passive aggressively buy the most expensive items. At least… you think he meant well with his buying and “trying to support the local shops” spiel) not many people came in and business at “The Maryam Sisters” was limited to designing, needlework, and sewing (with you being the one who did the more technical stitches and Kanaya being the one who did the more “oh my god this is so beautiful I wanna die” stitches). And although you cursed a fuck-ton whenever you messed up on a stitch (“Fuck you you pathetic excuse for a machine! Why even design this thing for animals when our fucking claws get caught on the fucking cloth all the fucking time!?”) you had to admit that you had come to like the home-y warm feel of Kanaya’s store.

 

At least, you used to.

 

“Hey Katkitty-kitty.” Dave said, reaching over to try and scratch your ears (you gritted your teeth and willed yourself to endure it even though you _sure_ wanted to bite his fucking hand off) “What’s shaking your catnip bacon?”

 

Fighting every urge in your grimalkin body not to fucking sink your teeth into him, you take your paw off of the sewing machine pedal to glare up at your oh-so-“wonderful”-mayor.

 

“Nothing is ‘shaking’ here Strider,” you growl at him. “In fact the only thing that will be ‘shaking’ here will be you if you don’t back the fuck up and away from my personal bubble.”

 

(You _really_ wanted to bite his hand.)

 

Dave just smirks and brushes his fingers against your ears (this time you have to pulverize the urge to actually fucking _purr_ when he does this) before removing them to push his shades higher up his nose. He gives you a slight nod (happy to reach his “Annoy Karkat” quota of the day) before walking over to Kanaya (who had been watching him like a…well…. like a _wolf_ ) to converse with her on which amazing accessory Eridan _didn’t_ buy yet. Returning to your machine work you watch (out of the corner of your eye) as Dave tries on a couple of goofy looking bowties (that Kanaya designed specifically for Gamzee the frog) before settling on a red Mario cap.

 

A smile quickly curves up on your lips and you can’t help but stop sewing because…well…. you always liked that hat.

 

You liked how iconic it was and how it reminded you of being just a small kitten getting stuck in the trees of your mother’s garden. You liked how it was a bright red that made people turn their heads and stare. You even liked, for some reason, how it looked on Dave’s head as he tried it on.

As if noticing the sudden lack of “sewing noises”, Dave turns away from Kanaya to glance at you and catches you fucking _smiling_.

 

Smiling at him.

 

Smiling and not scowling or groaning or moaning or bitching at him.

 

Just smiling.

 

There’s a look of surprise on his face, as if he never saw you smile before (which, technically he hasn't) and, to _your_ surprise,

 

He actually smiles, not smirks, _smiles_ the fuck back.

 

* * *

 

 

After making his selection (he bought the Mario hat) he gave a slight wave to you before heading out the door.

 

In response, you gave him your best middle finger up.

 

* * *

 

Two days after Dave bought his Mario cap (and no you didn’t purposely remember that miniscule tidbit of information, it was just that Dave was so fucking annoying that even your poor, miserable memories had to be plagued with his stupidness) you’re surprised to find a letter with a gift attached to it sitting in your mailbox. This makes you do a double take because, well, you weren’t exactly “Happy Villager No. 1” and the likelihood of someone sending you a gift when it wasn’t even your birthday and because they (heaven forbid) _liked_ you was a bit hard to believe.

(Although one time Vriska the alligator sent you a fucking crab in the mail with a letter that just said, “This looks like you.” Ironically, you ended up naming the crab “Cherry Cakes” and he was the best rom-com movie-watching partner you ever had. Even better than Kanaya because he didn’t bring his knitting work to movie night.)

So, with shaking hands (because fuck it, you were excited that you receiving a non-celebratory gift) you take the letter, anxious to see who sent you something.

 

All anxious-excitement hybrid emotions however die when you see who the sender is: Dave fucking Mayor Strider.

 

You immediately grip the letter so tightly in your hands that it begins to crease and try to will away the temptation to tear said letter into tiny, little kitty sized shreds. But even so, you can just mentally picture Dave’s face as he was writing and mailing this letter to you. You can see the twisted, horribly obnoxious expression as he told Ms. Paint the sheep that he wanted this delivered (hand-delivered) to “Karkitty the Prince of Moody Black Cats.”

You so so _so_ badly want to destroy the communication note and drown whatever heartfelt “gift” (probably an actual dildo to match your fucking town flag) into the river, but instead all you do is shove it back into your mailbox, refusing to look at it.

 

Ever.

 

* * *

 

 

You ended up looking at it two hours later because fuck, you were a cat and no matter how stereotypical and cliché it was, you were curious as to what Dave could possibly send you and why he would even send you anything at all.

Of course you knew Dave liked to send stuff to others because he was a fucking mayoral prick who was constantly trying to win others over with his heartfelt “sick raps” of the sappy and touching kind, (this was a lie. Dave was actually a good person and him sending stuff just highlighted rather than hindered his goodness) but you didn't understand why Dave would send something to _you._ After all, you had made it clear since day one of Dave’s mayoral duties that you preferred the old mayor (a tortoise just nicknamed “The Mayor” by everyone) and that there was no way in a million years you were putting your trust in someone who enjoyed making penis constellations in the sky.

Still though, your cat instincts can’t help themselves and you find yourself scuttling behind the apple trees near the town’s water fountain to read whatever the fuck Dave wrote and look at whatever the fuck Dave sent you.

 

* * *

 

 

The letter was the weirdest letter you ever read. The whole time you were reading it you felt like you were interacting with a ghost version of Dave that talked as unfiltered as regular Dave.

There were run-ons. There were spelling mistakes. There were several parts that looked like Dave was trying to insert a rap only to cut himself off. And in all, the letter was filled with so many ironic and un-ironic euphemisms that you had no idea what the letter was telling you in the first place.

The present however did more than make up the lack of understanding the shitty letter gave you because inside its red packaging was a cap. A certain green cap.

 

Dave Strider, fucking mayor of New Can Town, bought you a Luigi hat to match with his fucking Mario hat.

 

(It took all your inner might not to smile as you held it in your hands.)

 

* * *

 

When Dave sees you wearing said Luigi cap at Jane the bunny’s café, you can see an honest for god _smile_ paint itself across his face. A smile like the one you saw him wear that day he first bought his fucking Mario cap. A smile that suddenly turned your insides into unexpected _mush_.

 

Dave’s still smiling as he slides into the seat next to yours.

 

“I see you got my letter.” he says, taking off his shades and giving a slight wave to Jane (who blushes and begins to work on his apple cider because Dave doesn’t like coffee. Not that you knew that about him.) “Didn’t exactly expect to see you a plumber-ed up though.”

You try to glare at him (knowing all too well that your “mean cat glare” doesn’t look as mean under your doofy green hat) and reply that you were just wearing it because you knew sooner or later Dave would come and start nagging you to wear the “hat of legendary green brother.”

 

“Might as well save myself the earache and just grin and bear it now.” you mumble, taking a sip of your black coffee as Jane clatters back with Dave’s drink.

 

(You thought that K.K. Tavros, a shy but talented bull guitar player and DJ, would be playing tonight, but it’s quiet in the café sans the slight creak of floorboards every time Jane moves around.)

 

(It's so quiet that you almost miss the soft “It looks good on you” from Dave.)

 

* * *

 

 

You admit that somehow, somewhere along the way after you two become “hat bros” you began to be able to…. tolerate Dave. He still annoyed you to your wits end, but his annoyances went from “Oh god please kill me” to “Oh yeah? Let’s see if I can one up you then!” level of annoyance.

You two would engage in competitions of one-up-manship when the sun was high in the sky to when the moon was low and near the ground. Soon it wasn't just the sewing machine your paws were gripping: a fishing pole, a bug catching net, even Jane’s coffee machine weren’t spared from your and Dave’s competitions. (Dave could brew a mean red eye) and before you knew it, the two of you began to spend nearly all day every day arguing, complaining, and laughing together.

 

(And somehow, somewhere along the way, you began to see Dave as someone…special.)

 

* * *

 

 

It’s one summer night though, after a day of swimming (or in your case, being forced to swim) in the ocean that you and Dave share what you called a romance novella fucking _moment._

Because, as the two of you laid on your backs and watched for shooting stars (not giving a fuck about the sand messing up his fine hair and your plush fur) Dave leaned over to give you a quick, chaste, completely innocent, peck on your cheek. 

You had turned your head so quickly that sand flew into Dave’s face (his eyes would’ve been burning had it not been for his shades) and you could, even in the darkness of the night, make out the slight pinkish tint in his complexion.

 

“Sorry,” he muttered. “Just ….the stars and the sand and the being with you get my adoration hormones pumping y’know?”

 

You, in return (fur feeling hot) just curled your tail around his leg and respond with a shy, quiet,

 

“Yeah.”

 

* * *

 

 

You wouldn’t say that you and Dave are a couple per se. After all, Dave is just a young mayor and you are just a grumpy black cat with a pet crab.

But…. you also wouldn’t say the two of you are “just bros” anymore either after the whole “Dave kissed you on the cheek at night and you hella fucking loved it more than you let on.” 

Whatever you guys are though, you don’t mind. After all….

 

You had the rest of your nine lives to figure it out.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't visited my Animal Crossing town in two years. I am a horrible mayor.


	4. Day 4: Sadstuck "You're You"

Sometimes it will just hit you out of nowhere.

 

You’d “smile” (metaphorically of course, you’ve been told that when you smile you look like a sadistic werewolf who liked to eat the young and helpless), go through the day like always (yelling and cursing at your friends), run back and forth between classes (which were halfway across the fucking campus), apologize profusely to your professor’s when you inevitably came in late (at least you weren’t like the other fuckers who never even showed up), recount movies to your classmates (all romcoms with fake happy endings), encourage late night study-ers as you gave them coffee at the café (“You fucking got this so shut up and drink your Joe”), and just be _you_.

You would just be everyone’s friend, the friend who talked too much about nothing, who slept too little at night even when he _knew_ he should sleep more, and who got too emotional during cinema film festivals.

 

You would just be _you._

* * *

 

 

But sometimes, after the doors closed and your shoes had been removed (you liked to wiggle them in the crisp afternoon air) you’d feel yourself…. _drifting_.

Drifting like some sort of particle in space or a microscopic speck of dirt in the wind. You’d feel yourself losing _yourself_. But losing yourself in what (The moment? The atmosphere? The time?) you never knew.

You’d feel the scowl on your face melt into a straight line and your shoulders suddenly concave over and in, as if your body was defeated before your soul was and was trying to escape back into the earth.

 

And sometimes….

 

Sometimes, you would close your eyes and count to ten, as if trying to calm yourself down, only to let your hands just…feel yourself.

 

You’d touch yourself, not in a way that was sexual or pleasurable, not in a way that would you breathless and moaning and wanting physical contact, but in a way that reminded yourself how utterly _you_ you are.

You know it’s a form of torture, you know it’s not right, but sometimes it’s what you need because you can’t handle the mask you wear all day and everyday. Because sometimes you can’t be _you_. You can’t be the you everyone expects you to be. Everyone wants you to be. Everyone needs you to be.

 

You can’t be the you _you_ expect yourself to be.

 

And that’s also torture because…. How can you not be _you_? How can you not feel comfortable doing things that made you _you_? How could you lie in your bed everyday, wondering about you being _you_?

You told yourself that this was normal. Everyone had a stage in their life like this: a stage that made them want to throw up whatever fluids were in their insides onto their outsides. A stage where the patterns of everything slowly melted into their skins and tattooed themselves across their skeleton. A stage where their fingers felt like they were rubbed against chalk, old resin, and dried paint.

 

Everyone had that stage in their lives where their appearance doesn’t match their description. Everyone was confused. Everyone was scared. Everyone was terrified.

 

So…what made _you_ special?

 

* * *

 

That’s the thought that would stick out the most: What made you special? What made you so…. unique? 

You weren’t attractive to the naked and the un-naked eye, you weren’t smart or some stressed out honor roll student, you weren’t talented in sports or in any form of visual arts. You held nothing that made people stop and say, “That’s him. That’s Karkat.”

So, why would someone who had everything under control, everything planned out, everything the same feel so…. _drifted_?

 

* * *

 

 

_It passes._

 

That’s what it says on the Internet. This feeling passes and disappears.

 

_It’s hormones._

That’s what the Internet also says (at least, that’s what tumblr says). The feeling of being too big for your body but too small for your heart passes. It’s just your self growing bigger and experiencing change.

 

_It’s a phase._

You were already overly emotional so a change in environment did nothing but make you feel like this. But once you got used to it, it would be over.

 

_It’s going to be all okay._

That’s…. what the Internet says. And the Internet, the people who wrote stuff about _this_ , never lied right?

 

Right?

 

(…Right?)

 

* * *

 

(Same space. Same barefooted you.)

You’d brush your hands over your chest and torso, arms and stomach, again and again, as if trying to gross yourself out. You’d squeeze your thighs together, making them touch even though you know you hate that feeling of skin touching skin.

 

You wiggled your toes and let your mind drift light years away from this dot. This miniscule entity. This tiny apparition you called _you._

You’d image yourself trapped in a box like a bug, crawling across the floor like a slug, being squished and pulled like a child’s slime creation from art class.

 

Because at the end of the day that’s what you are: You’re _you_. You’re someone hiding behind _you_. You’re someone whose words are a little too mean and whose actions are a little too weak. You’re someone whose words don’t reach their eyes or their breath or their heart. You’re _you._

But then again, this feeling only hits you out of nowhere _sometimes_. And this feeling didn’t pinch and prod you all day everyday (at least, you think it didn’t.) And this feeling didn't stop you from working and running around so why _worry_? Why waste your time fearing what _this_ was? Why waste your breath trying to explain _this_?

 

After all, everyone went through it once in their life…. Didn’t they?

 

* * *

 

_You’re too hot._

You take off your jacket.

_The winds making your eyes burn._

So you close your eyes.

_The air makes your lungs feel tingly._

So you hold your breath.

_Your hair is messed up._

So you run a hand through its greasy waves.

_Your feet are cold._

So you wiggle them, starting with the toes.

_Your feet are cold._

So you shake them out, left foot then right.

_Your feet are cold._

So you make them curl until they pull and you have to grit your teeth when you can feel the toes begin snap with unnatural poses.

_You’re too cold._

(Well…. you can’t do anything about that can you?)

 

* * *

 

You think you remember in a game you played that there was a song about everything being all right. That even in the rifts between words and feelings, in between the vocal world and the physical one, everything would be all right.

You’re trying to remember what that song was called and what the game was about (something about the moon you think) but you don’t know why. You don’t know why it was so important or why you want to remember it.

  
You don’t know why.

 

* * *

 

You think you remember in some book that some college, wanting-to-off-themselves authoress wrote that she tried to kill a chicken with her dad. 

Her dad became angry at her indecisiveness for wanting to kill and destroy and end a form of life, but not having the courage to go through with it. The girl, as if only discovering that the chicken could still fucking move with its head barely hanging on its neck, panicked and realized that she _didn’t_ want to kill shit that breathed. She didn’t want her hands stained with blood. She wanted to make not destroy life.

But the bitch had unfortunately realized this a moment too late and she had to…finish the job.

You’re trying to remember what the book was called, something about food you think. Or was it about family? Either way, you don’t know why you’re trying to remember it.

 

You don’t know why.

 

* * *

 

You’re trying to remember why you liked Jackson Pollock. 

Of course you always knew why you liked him: his art. You liked how wild and unkempt it was. You liked how unrefined it looked next to other art that was all prim and proper and in a fucking line. You liked to think that Pollock was looking down at everyone from heaven and laughing his head off, making fun of the mere mortals who worshipped his art even though it was just splatters on canvas.

But really, _why_ did you like his art? Why did it make you feel so…happy? Why did black and gray and red and white on canvas make you feel so…connected?

 

(Did you feel like this? You don’t know why you’re trying so hard to remember.)

 

(You don't know why.)

 

* * *

 

You don’t know why you keep your feet in your shoes because you like being barefoot better. Of course you know some of your friends hate seeing people walk around barefoot and, back in high school, being barefooted never made any sense to you either. 

But now, you can’t help but think that _shoes_ were the inconvenience the whole time. You can’t help but say that out loud.

The guy across from you looks up, confused, and asks you to repeat yourself.

 

“Shoes.” you say again. “I don’t like wearing them.”

 

He’s silent, his eyes unreadable and hidden behind a pair of glasses. You can see how his red retinas flick from your face to your feet.

 

“Would you like to take them off?” he asks gently.

 

You nod.

 

* * *

 

You don’t really talk to red eyes guy.

 

Red eyes guy is one of those people who you know will just end up as a mental drifter. He’d just end up to be someone who you interacted with and talked to but never really stuck with. You had come to know a lot of people like that: a boy with buckteeth, a girl with long hair, a friend with freckles. They came, you interacted. They left, you forgot.

 

Simple as that.

 

So you don’t really talk to red eyes guy. You rolled your eyes, scoffed, groaned, glared, and snarled at him, but you never really talked.

 

You never really spoke.

 

* * *

You meet with red eyes guy more.

 

And more often than not, you two would fall into a pattern of you ignoring and him prodding.

 

You almost feel bad for him, here he was trying to make words come out of your mouth and there you were defiantly keeping them in. Red eyes guy would say weird things like, “You’re choking yourself” and “You can trust me” which you think is bullshit because since when did saying the words “You can trust me” ever warrant any trustworthiness in the history of ever? When did saying, “You can trust me” make people suddenly want to trust them? What even was ‘trust’ besides the butchered word _traust_ from the Middle English?

And why, _why_ are you trying to trust in him?

 

* * *

 

“I think you made progress.”

 

_You don’t think you did._

“Of course you still have a while to go.”

 

_You have no idea what he’s talking about._

“So, same time next week?”

 

_You hate this guy._

“Is that an affirmative Captain Vantas?”

 

_You hate this guy._

“Karkat?”

 

_You hate this guy._

* * *

 

“I don’t like you.” You say when you see red eyes guy. You tell him that every time you see him. You tell him that every time he sees you. You tell that to mental him that fogs up your brain and physical him who makes you gasp for air. “I do not like you.”

Red eyes guy just looks at you with a blank expression on his face and tells you he knows. He knows you don’t like him but he doesn’t care because he likes you and he just wants to talk. He just wants a conversation. He just wants words from you that weren’t sounds animals made when they were collared and caged.

“I don’t like you.” Is all you say again.

 

He just smiles and tells you that he knows but he _likes you_.

 

* * *

 

“I don’t like you.

_“I like you.”_

 

“I hate you.”

 

_“I like you.”_

 

“You disgust me.”

 

_“I like you.”_

“You’re insufferable.”

_“I like you.”_

 

“You never leave me alone.”

 

_“I like you.”_

 

“I wish you would stop.”

 

_“I like you.”_

 

“I…. don’t like you.”

 

_“I like you.”_

 

* * *

 

He tells you, much later, that you had a gift. A gift of seeing the good in everyone. A gift of worrying for others. A gift of caring but pretending not to care.

A gift of seeing yourself as an unequal.

 

“I like you.” he says again smiling. “You're a great person Karkat.”

 

You don’t believe him when he says that but still….

 

Still…. the words are nice.

 

* * *

 

“I like you.”

 

They’re simple words, quick and to the point. They are also non-binding words: no promise rings, no necklaces with engraved names, no circular bands with cubic zirconiums.

 

But their nice words all the same.

 

And maybe, that’s all you need in your life right now: Nice words. Simple words. Short words. 

Maybe (as of now anyway) you just needed someone to talk to. Someone who would listen. Someone who would stay silent for you.

Maybe, just for now at least, you needed someone like Dave.

 

And maybe, just maybe, you would let Dave be that someone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The implied game song is from "To the Moon" and the implied book is called "Blood, Bones, & Butter."
> 
> It's also implied that Karkat jumped off from somewhere very high and survived and Dave is helping him cope with his "thing."


	5. Day 5: Leave it Up to Fate "Shit....Let's be Parents"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Setting: Locker Room
> 
> Genre: Fluff
> 
> Trope: Soulmates
> 
> Prompt: Magically Appearing Baby

So, this whole “soulmate” thing? This whole “You’re fated to be together because you two fucking match” thing? This “You’re perfect for each other” thing?

 

Complete and utter bullshit.

 

It was bullshit!

 

There was everything working against it, like science and free will and social norms. What made soulmate-ship so damn great and fucking _amazing_?

This is why you and Dave thanked all amphibious gods above for the special surgery that got _rid_ of the soulmate mark. Because honestly? Fuck all that noise. Fuck all that “destiny” shit that dictated who you had to be with and grow old with and (to a lesser extent) have fucking _fucking_ with.

(Okay, maybe not to a lesser extent per se. Maybe you and Dave had took one look at your formed matching soulmate marks when he turned sixteen and _maybe_ Dave might have said something like “I am not sticking my dick into your troll vag Karks.” And _maybe_ you had said something like, “Nor do I want that human stick you call genitals near my personal fucking equipment Strider!”)

Speaking of Dave, you were happy that he was on board with the whole “get this fucking thing off me” dilemma. Because honestly? You saw Dave as just a friend, just like he saw you as just a friend. You didn’t see him as anything more than a bro who had, once upon a time, dated Terezi, Jade, and John (who were all, ironically, your crushes at one point.) You saw Dave as nothing more than a “Romance Rival Enemy” who somehow morphed and melted into “Number One Human Bro.” Sure, Dave was attractive and any-fucking-one could see it (you once took a trip to the mall with him and he got stopped seven different times by seven different recruitment agents) but that didn’t mean you had to go all goo-goo-gaa-gaa-I-fucking-want-your-panties on him.

 

(“Briefs Karkat. They’re called briefs. My dick is too strong for all that lacy and see through shit.”).

 

Maybe, because you had such a long complicated “I hate you, you suck” stage with him and all his pre-soulmate dating that you were immune to his “natural Strider charm.” Or maybe because you two had been forced to grudgingly begin a friendship out of necessity (your other friends had literally threatened to leave the two of you in Feferi’s, possibly haunted, cabin in the woods all “’Parent Trap’ staring Lindsey Lohan” style) then somehow had turned that friendship into a bro-ship, that the thought of anything other than what you had _now_ was unimaginable. 

So, two months after Dave turned sixteen (which were a very _long_ two months of awkward conversations, teasing, blushing, and eye contact avoidance) you and Dave decided to go through with the soulmate removing surgery when the two of you turned eighteen.

 

It seemed like the best course of action: the mark would be gone, you two would just stay bros, and the two of you could choose your own path without conforming to the rules of fucking mother nature.

 

At least, it was a _perfect_ plan.

 

Then you two turned seventeen.

 

* * *

 

It happened when the two of you were alone in the locker room after your respective sports team’s practices. Dave was the star player for Ultimate Frisbee (his flash steps were a good sent for Skaia High) and you were the Track and Field team’s best cheerleader (“RUN YOU PATHETIC NOOKSNIFFER! RUN!”) and most consistent sprinter (meaning you actually showed the fuck up for practice) and the both of you were sweaty, disgusting and gross. Definitely gross.

You had just gotten out of the shower, towel around your waist, trying to dry off your unmanageable hair and also give a middle finger to Dave (who had just playfully and obnoxiously swatted your “Vant-ass”) when suddenly, all at once, out of fucking nowhere with a literal _poof_ noise,

 

A baby.

 

A fucking newborn.

 

A fucking shot-right-out-of-the-egg-vag-womb tiny tot was in your arms.

 

You instantly yelped like a kicked dog, stumbled over yourself, fell to the ground (towel dipping dangerously too low) to catch/hold/support this fucking baby.

 

“What…the…fuck….?”

 

You glared at Dave. “Really? Those are your fucking first words?!” you begin to scream at him because _holy hell there is a baby in your hands_. Dave suddenly shushes you, eyes wide, but it’s too late. The volume of your monstrous raspy troll voice is too much and the baby grub thing (because holy hell part two, this blob had fucking troll horns and gray skin even though it had a human’s blonde hair, wriggly arms, legs, and fucking bellybutton) began crying.

 

And cry it did. So fucking loudly.

 

You instantly recognized the chirping noises of a grub’s cry for “protector” (closest thing to a human’s cry for “mother”) but there were also the human sounds of nothing but gurgles and sobs. And the human screaming.

 

Did you mention this thing in your arms was so. Fucking. Loud?

 

“Aw shit! Hey! Be quiet you bag of gray mashed potatoes! Shh! Shh!” you say desperately. You try, clumsily, to bounce the baby but that only makes them cry and chirp even _louder_ for their “protector.” You desperately look at Dave with a “Fuck do I do?” look on your face.

Luckily, your look of total desperation manages to break Dave the fuck out of his stupor and he’s quickly at your side and he’s moving the crying wriggler-babe out of your arms and into his (clothed) arms.

“Hey it’s okay. Shh. Everything’s going to be all right.” he says softly. The baby is still crying but, after a few more minutes of this soft cooing from _Dave_ of all people (you never thought that someone who was so shitty at words could actually use them for fucking good) the little guy (or girl) had finally calmed down.

Dave looks to you and gives you a nervous smile. “Guess they were just scared and shit for, y’know, falling out of the fucking air?”

 

You can only wordlessly nod.

 

* * *

 

The two of you take the baby home because really, where the fuck were you two going to put them (the baby)? It didn't feel right to just stick them into the nearest fucking adoption center or grub center and who would believe you when you told them that it just appear-a-fied out of fucking nowhere? Not to mention that the tiny one looked both human and grub and, even though the culling was long over and done with, there was still that insistent red blooded _fear_ in you that the child would be executed.

So, babe in hand and clothes on your body, you and Dave carpool together and take the wriggler back to your house which you both agreed would be _better_ (“We are not sticking this child into a house where your creepy brother moans into a mic with a puppet shoved up his ass at who knows fucking A.M. Dave!”)

After placing the sleeping baby on the couch (they gurgled softly in their sleep. Aww.) You and Dave sat and just…. looked at them.

 

The baby.

 

This weird grub thing.

 

“They’re cute.” you mumble. Out of the corner or your eye you think you can see Dave nod.

“They’re so tiny too. And soft.” he adds. This time you nod. A silence comes between you two that neither of you want to break because…well….

 

You two had to address the elephant in the room eventually. The “what the fuck’s” in this room eventually. The “what now’s” in the room eventually.

 

But for now, you two just watch this child.

 

* * *

 

“What are we going to do about them Dave?”

 

You don’t know how Dave is going to respond so you press your shoulder into his and ask again, more hushed this time so you could whisper it directly into his fucking earhole, “What the fuck are we going to do?”

Dave doesn’t say anything, just looks at the sleeping, adorable, drooling mess in front of him and sighs.

  
“Shit Karkat,” he mumbles. “I guess…. I guess this means were going to be parents.”

 

* * *

 

Those first few days of juggling the heavy thought of “Holy shit I am now a part of a dad unit with Dave fucking Strider” with school, practice, and the baby (Dave wanted to name it “Nebbie” after some Pokémon shit but after an adamant no from you, Dave had “compromised” and began calling the grub “Nubbie”) were so fucking _weird._

Because not only was practice and studying a pain in your ass, but the thought of anything happening to “Nubbie” (fuck it, the name stuck) plagued you like the yellow fucking fever of the eighteenth century. 

You knew from your own experience growing up (at least, from what you remembered) that troll grubs didn’t need to be watched twenty four-seven and could fend for themselves. But you also knew from the health class videos your school forced all ninth graders to watch that human babies needed constant attention from at least one parental unit all the time. According to the smiley woman on the grainy VCR tape (who, in Dave’s words, looked like a woman stripper version of Chris Pratt), lack of attention from parents could lead to emotional discrepancies in children later in life. Discrepancies that made the child turn to sex, drugs, alcohol, and various forms of crime. At the time you hadn’t really paid much attention to Woman Chris Pratt and her lecture-y antics.

 

But now, staring down at Nubbie, those lessons began hitting your thinkpan hard.

 

So, after spending that first night watching Nubbie on the coach while Dave ransacked your pantry for any “baby-grub food”, you decided that in order to be a good parent-protector-guardian to this baby, you needed back up. You needed someone who could help you. Someone who had the time in their schedule to watch this new child you and Dave were now parents to.

And so, with much, _much_ deliberation, hesitation, and unwillingness (but this was for the grub’s sake you kept telling yourself),

 

You called Kankri.

 

* * *

 

With Kankri’s help, being a parent became less conceptual idea and more of a physical one. Despite his annoying tendencies (his talk rambling was definitely not as entertaining to listen to as Dave’s word vomit) Kankri had suggested a couple of good ideas to you and Dave.

Those good ideas being going to the library to actually find fucking books about being a parent, going to the supermarket to get food and diapers for the baby (because apparently apple juice didn’t make the cut for “Best Item to Give to Newborns” and diapers were just a must have in general), and going to the mall to actually get clothes and toys and bedding and strollers and shit for the grub (because currently, said grub was wearing Dave’s red hoodie that, despite looking adorable on Nubbie, wasn't really “proper” clothes for them).

 

And each of those shopping trips were so. Fucking. Embarrassing.

 

For one, you had to go with Dave (because there was no way you could carry all the shit you were about to borrow and buy back to your hive alone and also because you didn’t have your driver’s license yet) and you had to take Nubbie with you (because those thoughts of this cute baby-grub hybrid becoming a pot-smoking, sex-seeking, drug store stealing adult terrified you).

 

And again, it was fucking embarrassing.

 

At the library everywhere you walked there would be murmurs and gasps and little “awws” from everyone who looked at you two. You and Dave (and to a lesser extent, Nubbie) were pointed out, gaped at, and talked about _very loudly_ (the librarian had to say “SHUSH!” at least thirty times) in the whole hour you three were there. You could feel your face coloring when some old guy said that _that_ was what a good soulmate-son-ship was all about (“Kids your age should be bonding within your soulmates, not just texting them!”) and couples came up to you, with wide eyes, asking how the two of you had made a baby (“Because, y’know, he’s like a human and your like a troll.”)

Your face was _absolutely burning_ when Dave, trying to fend off the herds, said, “Fucking leave my family out of this!” at one smirking teenage asking if it hurt when you got fucked in the troll vag because _wow those were not words you were expecting_.

 

A fucking family.

 

Was that what the three of you looked like to others? A family? Did you, Dave, and Nubbie actually look like a fucking family?

 

(Your cheeks feel warm at just the thought of being “family” with Dave.)

 

It only got worse as the day continued. More people, more stares, more cooing, and more Nubbie crying.

 

When the three of you had finally, _finally_ returned to your hive, you were not only exhausted to the point of hallucination, but also more than a thousand dollars lighter, and covered in baby-troll products for Nubbie.

 

You and Dave looked at each other then, in perfect harmony, let go of the entire baby shit and, with Nubbie in hand, plopped on the coach, groaning.

“M’ tired…” you mumbled, curling into yourself and holding to your chest Nubbie. “Let me sleep for all eternity Strider.” To your right you could here Dave moan in agreement.

 

“Let’s take…a power nap…” he mumbled, sleep already clouding his words. “Then we can build…. shit…. up…. from…. IKEA….”

 

You were asleep before he even finished his sentence.

 

* * *

 

When you woke up again, the first thing you noticed was that Nubbie was crawling on the ground grub style, all curious and with the troll “exploratory” look in their eyes.

 

It was adorable and made you smile.

 

The second thing you noticed was where you were on the coach. Where you were and who was with you. Or really, who was under you.

 

You and Dave had basically moved into a cuddling position on your fucking coach.

 

The third thing you noticed was when you moved to push yourself off of sleeping Dave (did he always have freckles or did you never look at his face this closely before?) was that the back of your right hand, your soulmate marked hand, had fucking _changed._

 

For one thing, the soulmate mark no longer held just a cancer symbol enlarged on top of a time gear (like it always had had). Now, there was fucking _more_.

 

There was now a red string-like mark that moved from your hand to a little past your wrist and, sticking out of the string, there were buds that all looked un-bloomed albeit for the first one: A gray daisy with blonde petals.

Your breath catches in your throat and you shake Dave awake (he snorts and raises the glasses onto his head to give you his best grumpy-cat “I hate you for waking me up” look) and you quickly shove your wrist into his face.

 

“Look.” you say. “Fucking look at my wrist Dave. Fucking look at it and tell me that fucking flower on it _isn’t Nubbie_.”

 

Any signs of sleepiness disappears as Dave stares at your wrist then, scrambling from his position still beneath you (because you still haven’t fucking moved off of him since you had gotten up) he raises his own arm to see that, in a perfect matching mirror image to yours, his soulmate mark now also has the same flower. The same gray and blonde colored Nubbie daisy.

 

“Shit.” he whispers, looking to his wrist and to you and back to his wrist. “Shit Karkles shit.”

 

You nod. “Now fucking what? It seems that our fucked up little fate marks are trying to bring us even closer together.”

 

Dave sighs a pathetically weak sounding sigh and motions you to get off of him. You comply and, with slow movements, Dave sits up.

 

There’s a silence between the two of you as Dave stares into space and you stare at Dave, waiting on some kind of response or comment or even a shitty rap from Dave. But you get nothing from him.

 

Nothing at all.

 

* * *

 

It’s when it feels like hours and hours and hours of awkward silence have passed that you realize what _you_ have to do to make this right. What you have to do in order to get Dave out of this twisted, weird fate shit. 

So you open your mouth and tell him that you were _not_ getting rid of Nubbie. You were not sending them anywhere that wasn’t the safety of your hive. You were not giving them up.

 

“But,” you say, “But Dave…if _you_ want to back the fuck out you can.”

 

Dave’s head whips to yours and he stares at you like you've grown twelve fucking dragonheads and asks in a raspy voice what the fuck you just said.

 

You sigh. “Look Dave,” you say, “Having Nubbie is…. is only going to bring us closer as ‘more than friends’ than ‘just friends.’ And we already agreed on that whole ‘get rid of the mark shit’ last year remember? So what I propose,” you stop and let the knot in your throat (which for some reason had formed while you were speaking), “I propose you let me take care of Nubbie _alone._ ” 

Dave continues to just fucking stare at you, this time like you grew thirty heads and you have to force yourself to continue (the knot in your throat has since grown bigger.)

 

“I mean it makes sense doesn’t it? The closer we are…romantically and shit the more difficult it will be for the surgery to work. And having Nubbie…having Nubbie is only going to make _us_ get closer. This flower mark wasn’t even here two weeks ago!” 

Dave is still silent but his eyes have since gotten wider and his mouth is hanging open.

 

“So let me do this for us Dave.” you say, “Let me take care of Nubbie by my fucking _self_.”

 

* * *

 

It’s so fucking quiet that you think you can hear a literal pin drop and explode. It’s so quiet that you can hear Dave fucking breathing and Nubbie scratching up the wood floor with their nail-claw hybrids. It’s so quiet that you can hear the cars passing by outside your apartment building.

 

It’s so quiet…. that it’s almost unsettling.

 

When Dave finally speaks though, it’s not quiet.

 

“Bullshit.” he says. “Bullshit Karkat…. That is bullshit. What you just said is bullshit! That’s the shittiest bull that ever shitted!”

 

Dave is loud. He is very loud. You know he can be very loud, but you’ve never actually heard him be loud before. Usually his remarks were overly long and complicated but they were _soft_.

 

Now, Dave is fucking loud.

 

“Why would you-?! You seriously think-?! That is fucking-?!” Dave groans as the words he’s trying to say (and probably wants to say) keeps getting stuck in his esophagus and choking him. He shakes his head at your (apparent) “bullshittiness” and, grabbing both of your hands, looks you straight in the eyes.

 

(Your face was _not_ turning red when he did this.)

 

“When I said _we’re_ going to be parents I meant it Karkat.” he said, his red eyes burning two fucking holes into you. “I’m not going to abandon you and Nubbie because of some soulmate bullshit. I’m not going to turn away when I know you two are right fucking here.”

 

He grips your hands tighter.

 

“I want to be part of whatever the fuck is happening right now. I want to raise this weirdly adorable troll human hybrid being and I want to be with you to raise them.”

 

He leans in closer and says it again.

 

“I want to fucking be with you Karkat. Fuck whatever predetermined shit is forcing us together. Fuck whatever fate we’re unwillingly falling into. I don’t fucking care anymore! Let me be with you Karkat. Fucking _please._ ”

 

(He’s very close to you when he says _this_.)

 

* * *

 

There’s a warmth that erupts on your wrist (and to a lesser extent, in your heart) and you look down, surprised and confused, only to see that a flower bud is quivering and almost vibrating on your mark.

You watch mesmerized as the flower bud tilts itself up on your skin and then fucking _blooms_ a flower, a new flower, right there on your wrist. You feel your eyes widen at the newly formed petals of a bright red carnation that is sitting right there, right across from the gray and blonde daisy.

 

“…Wow….” is all you can say, enchanted by the new flower on your wrist. “Holy fucking wow.”

 

(The two flowers, next to each other, are beautiful.)

 

* * *

 

You stare at the carnation on your wrist before slowly, slowly looking back up at Dave.

 

Dave looks up from his own wrist that, just like yours, holds the same carnation. He sheepishly smiles at you.

 

“Shit…. let’s be parents?” you ask hesitantly. Dave just nods.

 

“Shit, let’s be parents.” He answers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 10 years later- the two fucks get married and Nubbie is their flower child. All their friends make fun of them. Two years after that, Nubbie gets a sibling. The four are very happy.
> 
> Also flower language people:
> 
> Daisy: means childbirth and new beginnings  
> Carnation: deep love


	6. Day 5: Fluff "A Slice of Key Lime Karkat Pie Please!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was so fun to write. Why can't I pick up people like this?

When you first met him, you hated him.

This “hate” though only lasted a few seconds and was only spurred because he had, just like you, seen the last slice of key lime pie in the display case and decided that he needed it. Needed to consume it. Needed to have the sour of citrus and softness of cream hit his tongue. Needed something to remind him that the world was as bright and magical as the lime-d cream was. He needed a dessert encased in sugar and eggs that would bring up memories of past summers. He needed a sweet treat that would, for a moment, transport its consumer (who’s heart had been forced to become a frozen ghost of itself due to the hellhole that was called “college”) to a more tropical, relaxing (emphasis on the word “RELAX-FUCK-ING”) paradise.

 

And he had just snatched that something from under your very nose.

 

He seems pleased with himself and why wouldn’t he? In his small world he had just won the prize of the day. The coveted slice of pie. The piece of celebration. The dream child of sour and sweet. The-

You’re cut off from your mental train of thought when he, not seeing you, turns too quickly and one hundred percent, completely by accident, spills his ice-cold coffee,

 

All. Over. You.

 

A look of confusion that was on his face fades as quickly as it appeared as he realized that _“Shit an angry looking midget with the eyes of a murderer was standing behind me the whole time and I just dumped coffee on their ass!”_

 

At least that’s what you assume (and slightly hope) is what is going through their mind.

 

“Oh shit.” he mutters. Then, slightly louder and more panicked he says it again….

 

And again…and again

 

By what feels like the twentieth “Oh shit,” (it was actually only the fifth but it wasn’t like you were counting) you put him out of his misery.

And by “put him out” you just give him your best stink eye (you hope he could see it past his shitty shades) and ask if he would please move aside so you could order and leave (with what little dignity you had left.) He visibly gulps (his Adam’s apple moving) and steps aside, muttering what sounds like a “Sorry” to you.

 

You’re tempted to say something like “If you’re so sorry then why don’t you give me your fucking piece of pie so the life I’m currently living isn’t so fucking terrible?” but you don’t.

 

(And no, it’s not because you lack courage to talk to strangers. It’s because you don’t have time for guys like him.)

(Even if guys like him were kind of, sort of, maybe…. cute….)

 

(…. ish…)

 

* * *

 

You hate being cliché. It was just…not your style.

 

Yes, you knew people who could cliché the hell out of every situation. A soft touch here, an eye bat there, and witty pick up line not gotten from one of those “Dummy’s Guide” books over there. Quite frankly you admired them for putting themselves out there.

But for you? Clichés weren’t your forte. Clichés were like giving into the nature of a romantic novella. Clichés were designed for people who, out of a lonely desperation, would pull whatever they could from within themselves on any poor soul who happened to pass by. Clichés were for people who would force a fake persona on themselves in high hopes of not being lonely and dying of said loneliness at the tender age of forty.

 

Yet here you are, playing the trope of the word “cliché” to a “T” as you stare at the guy you just kamikaze-d with coffee.

 

There’s a long, silent, awkward pause as you, eyes unmoving, continue to watch a mix of black coffee (hey at least it wasn't hot cocoa today) and cinnamon slowly stain itself on said guy’s shirt (and face) and you think you can hear the barista (fucking John Egbert from the Land of Shitty Laughs and Ghosts) trying to keep in a laugh as the short, angered, tired looking guy in front of you gives you a “Fucking really?” look. So you open your mouth to apologize,

 

Only for about twenty million mega-fucking fails of “Oh shits!” to tumble out of your gaping speaking hole you call your jaws.

 

The guy only looks at you, then at his stained shirt, then back at you, then at the slice of key lime pie in your hands. Then back at you again. “If you can please move so I could make my order,” he says, his voice raspy, “I would really… _really_ fucking appreciate it.”

 

You could only nod dumbly and finally cough out a “Sorry” in response.

 

* * *

 

The next time you see him, you’re half hoping he doesn’t recognize you.

In your opinion, you have a “boring, generic, unnoticeable” face with messy dark hair and the reason why you quote-unquote that statement is because you’re pretty sure that every book ever written has used that statement and the last thing you want is to make yourself a character from a bad romantic comedy.

(Not that there was anything wrong with romantic comedies, it was just that you liked talking about them _while_ you watched them and you liked pointing out how many times they used a clichéd romance trope. And no, that’s not the reason why Kanaya no longer invites you to watch movies with her.)

 

But to him, he was probably looking for your “boring, generic, unnoticeable” face because it’s not a minute after you sat down (equipped with a math textbook, a coffee, and a blank stare) that he comes over, holding a slice of that coveted key lime pie in his hand that was _definitely_ not on the display case when you had bought your coffee. You grit your teeth in frustration because damn bastard must’ve bought it before you entered the café. (You make a mental note to get here _before_ two o’clock from now on rather than _after_.)

“Hi.” he says and you have to commend him for his sudden surge in bravery because, in contrast to the “coffee shower” bumbling mess he was, he’s now standing, almost confidently, in front of you with a slice of pie. (You would never have the courage to do that if you were in his position so…. props to him.)

You’re tempted to say something like “Here to shower me in bean juice again?” but you hold your tongue and just nod at him, acknowledging his presence. He takes this as a sign to continue.

 

“I bought you a pie to….y’know…make up for last time.” he says.

 

His words are sharp at the end, like he’s rushing to get them out but his tongue got stuck on the roof of his mouth, and they have a little southern twang to them that you didn’t notice before. (And no, his voice was not fucking “endearing” shut up conscience.) He looks at you, as if waiting for a response or some words of “No you didn't need to do that! I already fucking forgot about how I was shivering and gross and covered in a cup of java!” When you give him none (you kinda continue staring at him with wide fucking eyes) he just places the pie quickly on your table, gives you a half of a smile, then scuttles away.

 

(Like a squirrel you note.)

 

You shake your head at his antics when he’s gone…but you did eat his free pie because hey- free food is free food.

 

* * *

 

Jane can only shake her head as you scuttle to sit right behind the counter (after you ran out the front door of the café and reentered through the back door of the café.)

 

“Well?” you ask. “How is it? What’s going on? What’s the scene out there captain?”

 

Jane just smiles.

 

“Well invisible man that no one sees except for me, it seems that the couple near the window are having a “hate date” because they look like they want to strangle each other, the couple near the bathroom are trying to con money out of bathroom goers, and the lonely man behind the counter is hiding from the only person who is actually studying in this café rather than enjoying themselves.”

You roll your eyes at Jane (even though she can't see them). “You’re seriously going to make me beg Crocker?” you ask desperately. “Please don’t make me beg. The last time I was begging on my knees it was because I was trying to Victoria Justice-it-up in pre-algebra for an extra two bonus points back in eighth grade.”

Jane, like the loveable, wonderful, marvelous, only sometimes-sadist she can be, has the audacity to fucking _laugh_ at your pain. “He’s eating the pie if that’s what your wondering about Dave.” she says.

 

(You can’t help but feel a grin spread across your face when she confirms this.)

 

* * *

 

 

When he sees you again, you're struggling to pay for your order.

“I have another dollar somewhere.” You say as you struggle with the pockets of your backpacks. The cashier/barista, a glasses wearing kid from your biology class (or was it art class? Fuck, you couldn’t remember), was patiently waiting but you could feel your cheeks become redder because _fuck it you can't find that dollar._ From where you’re standing, you know people can see the redness from your cheeks spreading through to your ears as you keep checking and rechecking every possible spot you had on you for any money at all because this is just getting embarrassing and-

 

The cashier looks past you and smiles at something, or someone, behind you. “Hey Dave what’s up?”

 

You’re too busy still looking for cash to pay attention to the conversation flying above your head. You’re too busy doing a shuffle-crab dance to pay attention to it at all and you’re too busy mentally debating to look in your fucking shoes for the lost dollar (because Gamzee liked putting weird things in other weird things okay?) However, all thoughts of “busy-ness” fly from your mind when a hand slides a twenty to cashier dude.

 

“I’ll take a lemon meringue and whatever this guy’s buying John.”

 

You stop struggling with yourself and look up to (surprise, surprise) Shades McCoffee Spiller’s face. He grins down at you while “John” makes a gagging noise from behind the counter (“Too much gay Dave! Too much! Abort! Abort!”)

 

(You’re face does not feel like a lava when John says this.)

 

“Long time no see shorty.” Shades teases in that not-endearing southern twang of his. “Miss me?”

 

In response (because your heart did not fucking skip a beat shut up conscience!), you step on Shades’ foot (hard).

 

(You couldn’t help but feel a bit proud of yourself as you did so.)

 

* * *

 

“Shut up, it wasn’t even that funny!”

 

John and Jane, like the little shits they are, giggle when you go to pick up yours and cutie-with-a-temper’s drinks.

 

“You yelped Dave! You actually yelped like a fucking animal when he stepped on you!” John cackles, forcing you to relive your not-so-wonderful past self’s life (from ten minutes ago.) You roll your eyes and reach over to grab the drinks from John’s hands. “Laugh it up weirdos.” you say. “Guess who’s bonding with angry dude now? And guess who just found out angry dude is as single as a doubled spaced essay due on Monday morning?”

John just continues to mother-fucking smirk. “Don’t you mean, _for_ now Dave?” he jokingly corrects.

 

You flick the whip cream on the top of your hot cocoa into his stupid face.

 

* * *

 

You like to consider yourself above romance.

 

That is not to say you do not believe in love, but in the times when you’re by yourself and your books (cough, all the time COUGH), surrounded by smiling, happy couples, you can’t help but think to yourself that _this_ , this solitary situation you have, is fine.

But you also can’t help but wonder sometimes how others could do the romantic-do so easily. How others could do the “pick-up and date” so fucking easily. It doesn’t necessarily make you jealous, but it does make you feel a bit…uncomfortable.

 

(Okay, maybe you were a bit jealous.)

 

All these thoughts, these thoughts that just float and stumble around in your brain, come to a crashing, burning, diving, _stop_ when Shades dude (also know as Dave) asks for your number.

You’ve only began talking, really talking, to him today (for maybe the past two hours, shut up conscience) yet there he was, right in front of you, with a bright red fucking face and an empty pie plate, asking for your number.

“I…uh…um…” tumbles from your lips as the words “No,” refuses to make an appearance and the mental thoughts of “Being single is fine” disintegrate into a mess of “Oh my god I’m being asked out by Shades McShades Dave Strider” begins to plague your brain.

 

And Dave just keeps staring at you.

 

“I mean, you don’t need to give me your number if you don’t want to.” he quickly says. “Just say ‘No way Joseph my bro-seph’ and I’ll be out of your hair faster than gum attacked by peanut butter. Did you know peanut butter gets the gum out of your hair? Never tried it before because with hair like this why would I get gum in it? That’s stupid. And dumb. And stupid. Wait, I already said that. Please just reject me now before I talk more. Seriously say the magic words and abracadabra I’m gone like a Pokémon Abra.”

There’s a laugh from behind the counter as cashier/barista dude leans over to say, in a sing-songy voice, that Dave _won’t_ be gone because he “Loooooves that angry guy who eats key lime pie.”

 

Dave’s face becomes a new, never-before -seen, shade of red.

 

“Shut up Egderp I’m trying to do something here!” he yells back, but his voice cracks in a way that only makes John laugh more. Dave groans and buries his face in his hands. “Kill me. Kill me now Karkat. You see my big chem textbook over there? Just smack me with it and send me to a land of words and shame.”

 

You could only laugh at his antics.

 

* * *

 

“So…Angry dude gave you his number.”

 

“Yup. And his name is Karkat John. K-a-r-k-a-t, _Karkat._ ”

 

“Whatever. But angry dude hid his number in your chemistry textbook.”

 

“Yup. ”

 

“Which is why your reading every page of it now like it's the bible.”

 

“Yes John _yes_. Why is this so fucking hard to understand?”

 

John sighs and tells you that you are a sad, desperate, pathetic man in love. You just give him the middle finger and continue looking for Karkat’s number in the pages mystery that was chem.

(You find it under the chemical make up for salt, which was, ironically, in the introduction part of the textbook that no one read. But hey, at least now you knew the chemical make up for ice cream that never melted.)

 

* * *

 

Dave is…weird in a way you never imagined. 

He talked too much about nothing yet everything in a way that was both endearing and maddeningly annoying, he acted stupid sometimes even though he was hella fucking smart (he helped you more than once on some late night math problems at Jane’s café), he sang badly but could rap like a god (one time he fucking winked at you when he rapped that he had a thing for a man who “Spoke fire, was a movie crier, and wore black like a nun in choir.”), he had bad tastes in movies but then again, so did you,

 

And he was, for some reason, fixated on you in a way that you never thought someone could ever possibly be.

 

“What did I ever do to deserve such a cutie like you?” he mumbled one night as he rested his chin on your head. Dave was fucking cuddling you as the two of you watched another contestant get “Chopped” from the competition. “Seriously did I make a deal with a god in my past life or am I just that fucking lucky?” he asks before kissing the top of your head. “You’re too good to me Karks.”

You smile, even though you know he can’t see it, and pull Dave’s arms tighter around your body. “That’s what I was thinking.” you say quietly, hopping that he can’t hear you.

(But of course, like the exasperating fucktard he is, you know that he mother-fucking does.)

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pie PIe PIE PIE PIE PIE PIE PIe Pie


	7. Day 7: Free Choice "Painting"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So Dave's an artist in this one. What else is new? 
> 
> Also mentions of sex here. Like. sex. Like. smut.
> 
> Also Karkat gets turned on by painting.

You have always been fascinated, _utterly fascinated,_ with his artwork. His artwork was just _so_ different.

It was unique. It was something…. something that you’ve never seen before. It was something that you were _almost_ scared of.

You were used to artwork that used muted paints and colors. You were used to artwork where the canvas was pure white. You were used to artwork where every stroke was unnoticeable and undistinguishable from the rest of the thousands strokes that surrounded it. You were used to artwork in museums, lined up perfectly and carefully next to each other, matching each other through set themes and environments. You were used to art that looked like this: clean, careful, and _utterly the same._

Yet his work, his artwork, was different.

His paints were vivid and bright. Each stroke he made was distinguishable, noticeable. His lines of colors didn’t combine together to form a bigger form picture. His works were each, by itself, _art._ It seemed so inhumanly simple what he did. Nothing more than swirls and splashes. Nothing unique, nothing over the top, everything he did was so painfully normal.

Yet when he painted, it was anything but normal.

 

* * *

 

He was young but already rising in fame. Inexperienced in the art world yet experienced enough to hold his ground. Professors had complemented his work. Art critics had nodded their heads in approval whenever they saw something under his name. He was already wanted in some museums even though he had just graduated college.

One time he had invited you to see him work and you knew that that simple invitation from him was his chance to show off to you. To show you what he was capable of doing. What he was capable of creating. And you knew the whole time he was working, that _he_ was watching you watch him.

He had kissed you softly when you had entered his studio, nothing more than the briefest of touches on your lips that left you wanting _more,_ then walked over to his model and whispered something in her ear. You couldn’t help but notice the way the model looked at him (y _our_ him) with almost longing eyes as she giggled and nodded her head furiously. What almost felt like a twinge of jealously coursed through you as he seemed to acknowledge her look, lifting his shades to give her a wink, before taking them off entirely and placing them on a windowsill. You could feel your hands tighten into fists when he did this because, despite him kissing you, despite him being yours, he was…. unreachable when he was in _his_ world.

You watched as he opened his precious art box and unwrapped new art tools. Brushes, palette knives, colors that had been untouched were unloaded as another uncomfortable whoosh of what you thought was _jealously_ coursed through you as you realized that this, all this new, untouched equipment, was for her. For his model. Everything was bought _especially_ just for her.

And then she stripped.

 

* * *

 

You had had an inkling that she wasn’t wearing anything under her robe ever since you had first entered the studio, yet suddenly seeing her both naked and staring at _your_ Dave with those eyes that were filled with longing and want made something begin to _burn_ and _pop_ inside of you.

You weren’t seeing crimson. You weren’t seeing scarlet. You were seeing a shade of red that was the color of blood.

And then _he_ began.

The brush was dipped first into a deep, dark blue. “Midnight blue,” Dave said softly as you watched the paint on his brush drip into puddles back on the palette. Then, almost teasingly, he slid the brush across the model, across _her_ arm and you couldn’t ignore the shiver his model gave when he made contact. Twirls, stripes, lines, and swirls began to cover her body and you couldn’t ignore the sultry _look_ the model was giving as Dave painted and painted and painted all over her. You watched as each of his brushes, each of his _new_ brushes, were dipped into new, fresh paint…. All. For. Her.

 

You were not jealous.

 

* * *

 

He leaves you alone more times than you are comfortable with.

You know he’s busy. He knows you’re busy. You have classes, your older brother, and an apartment to deal with and you had to make money with your small part time jobs to pay for living in said apartment. But your boyfriend, but Dave, he was traveling and painting. He was locked in his studio, using his painting abilities to cover models that were his canvas with paint. And he was getting noticed by critics and museums. He was living while you were…surviving.

And despite knowing he was yours and yours alone, you felt lonely without him.

 

* * *

 

It was the night before he came back from California that he asked you in his growling, sleep deprived voice, if you could go to his apartment and clean it. “Please?” he begged. “I have a model coming over and I’m literally going to come in like an hour before our meeting. _Please?_ ”

You know where his key was. In fact, you were holding that key in your hands right now. You stare at said key for a moment too long then say yes. You told him that you would. You told him that you didn’t mind. You told him to just rest and let you handle his messes.

And you told him, so softly that he can’t hear you, that you love him and miss him.

 

* * *

 

You clean up his junk, wash off his brushes, take out his trash (mainly bottles of empty paint), and make sure his floors are spotless. When you are done, you are sweating and disgusting and you feel bone tired but you also feel…. almost proud of what you did for Dave. You feel almost proud that you helped him in your own way.

And then you saw it: Another new art set. Another new set of brushes. Another new set of paints.

 

All for his models.

 

The burning, blood red feeling boils inside of you as you grit your teeth in…. Anger? Rage? Sadness?

No…. Jealously. You were jealous. You _are_ jealous.

 

Almost as if acting on instinct, you walk over and unwrap his new brushes from its plastic and draw one, a wide brush with a red handle, out from its packaging. You then take one of his new paints, one of his precious red ones, and unscrew it.

Who were you kidding? You were sleep deprived, stressed from school and work, and you wanted him. You wanted your boyfriend. You wanted the upperclassman you fell in love with back when you were a lost freshman.

No…. more than that. You wanted to be his canvas. You wanted him to cover you in paint. You wanted him to paint you with the same finesse that he used on his models.

 

You wanted _Dave_.

 

* * *

 

You started with your opposite hand. Clutching the paintbrush, you dipped it in the red and then, shaking only slightly, you began to paint, using the same swirling patterns that you had seen him do. The soft touches, the tickling sensation, the dragging of the tip up and down made you shiver and want to pull back, yet this is what you wanted. You wanted the paint on you.

You push up your sleeve, anxious for more. Wanting more. You don’t care if the red acrylic paint stains your black sweater. You don’t care that Dave will probably notice his touched paint set. Let him notice. Let him know what you’ve done.

 

You just wanted it. You wanted this. You wanted Dave.

 

More and more of the paint covers you. The sleeve is now bunched up around your shoulder and the tightness of the cuff mixed with your guilt is sending a twitching sensation up and down your painted arm but the feel of the brush tip over you is so good that you ignore the tingly feelings of regret and let yourself tilt your head back and _moan_. Your imagination escapes you as you picture Dave painting you. You picture Dave smiling as he touches you with his paintbrush and pays attention to you like _this._ You picture Dave. Dave. _Dave._

Because maybe that’s what you really were in the end: an attention whore. A greedy bastard. An obnoxious prick. Maybe you were nothing but a stuck up kid who couldn’t handle being ignored. Maybe you couldn’t handle the constant trips, the late night Skype calls, the waiting by the phone. Maybe you just wanted him to stay with you like he stayed with his models. Maybe you wanted to see his eyes travel up and down you like you were something precious. Something to be preserved. _Something to be painted._

That’s what stops you in your tracks. _Something to be painted_.

Dave never painted you. He never once asked you to be his model, even when he was drawing them and not drawing _on_ them. He never asked you to sit still and look pretty. He never thought you would even want to be painted. _He never asked._

You put the brush down and step back. You look at your arm and at all the intertwining red that was over it. All the paint that was Dave’s all over it,

 

  
And you vow to never do it again.

 

* * *

 

When you ask him, half-jokingly, half-serious, why he never painted you, Dave just laughed. “Come on babe.” he says. “There’s a difference between you and the models I paint on.”

That same _twitch_ happens inside of you and you ask him, holding your breath, what that difference _was._

 

He doesn’t answer you.

 

Instead he just kisses you on the forehead and tells you he’s going to hit the hay. “Love you babe.” he says, already getting up and leaving.

You whisper back that you love him too…. Even though you know it’s too quiet for him to hear it.

 

* * *

 

You steal his paintbrush after that. And a tube of his red paint.

It’s an impulse steal. It’s a quick, out-of-the-blue steal, but it’s a steal nonetheless. He had called you (this time from a gallery in Florida) and asked you to, once again, clean his apartment. His voice had been muddled and you thought you heard classical music playing behind him and you could almost picture him, wearing that black suit you loved seeing him in but never told him that you loved, standing in front of his artwork. His craft. His paintings done on human frames.

 

His life.

 

All you could do was nod (even though you knew he was miles away and you knew he couldn't see it) and mumble a half-hearted insult of an agreement.

So once again you cleaned his apartment. Once again you cleaned his brushes and capped his paints. Once again you threw away his garbage. Once again you felt your eyes drift to his paints.

And once again you painted on yourself, imagining that it was Dave who made each stroke. It was Dave who etched each swirl. It was Dave who painted you.

 

Only this time, you pocketed his brush and paint and then left his apartment.

 

* * *

 

You were jealous and you hated that you were. You hated that you wanted to keep him here even though you knew he could go so far and fly so high without you. You knew he didn’t need someone like you pulling on his string. Dave was a balloon with the potential to hit beyond the atmosphere but you? You were nothing but a little boy trying to keep his kite from running away.

So, even though you did not want to, even though you did not need to, you cut the string attaching you to Dave. You cut it, lifted it, and tossed it into the air with two, small, soft, words:

 

_“It’s over.”_

 

* * *

 

You fall into a routine of just you, yourself, and time.

Kankri had moved out with his boyfriend shortly after you had ended it with Dave. You had graduated and found a job in a well-known magazine as a critic who reviewed anything and everything from movies, to restaurants, to books, to even video games. You enjoyed your job and, for some reason, people seemed to love your voice on paper, no matter how expletive and distant you made yourself out to be.

 

You were living.

 

You were finally doing the “living” you had only seen Dave do. You were finally doing the living that you had been craving for for years and years. You were finally doing the living you did not think was achievable back when you were scanning items and taking orders. You were moving through your life like _he_ was.

 

Yet why….

 

Why was it when you woke up with the sun in your eyes, why was it when you pulled the covers off your chest, why was it when you ate your breakfast alone, _why_ did it feel like you were still chained to the ground?

Why did it feel like that _this_ , _this_ that you had worked so hard for, _this_ was all for naught? You were happy. You were working. You were stressed out in the way you wanted to be stressed out in….

Yet why did you still look at the sky and wish for something, for someone, else? Why did you still paint yourself every night and wake up with _his_ paintbrush trapped in your grasp? Why were you terrified to see him again even though craved his touch at night? Now that there were finally no more distractions, no more school, no more hoping for a way out of your stress, no more _surviving_ ,

Why did you only _now_ realize how pathetic, small, scared, and stupid you had been when you were with him?

 

* * *

 

You hadn’t seen him for a while.

 

A while being two years. A while being twenty-four months. A while being that the red paint was long gone yet you had the gall to go out and buy more of it and spend late nights painting yourself. Had the audacity to say his name as you climaxed into nothingness while you swirled paint across your chest.

Dave was famous now. Not small town famous. Not rising famous. He’s _famous_ famous. He’s influential famous. He’s recognizable famous. He’s unreachable famous.

 

Yet he agreed to let you interview him.

 

You, the college graduate working as a critic for a business that was slowly becoming less paperback and more digital. You, a grown man whose main purpose in said career was to rant and rave about anything and everything. You, who secretly published a romance novel under a pen name and was now receiving high praise for it, praise that you could never tell anyone about,

 

You, the ex-boyfriend who had dumped Dave Strider because you were scared, was now interviewing the same Strider.

 

* * *

 

The questions were basic and to the point: Hobbies, talents, inspirations, initial goals back when he began his work, what felt about his fame now, these were all the questions you knew the answers to. These were all the questions that you had asked him once upon a time. But, like the Dave he is and the Dave you remembered, he ignores your questions. He ignores your prompting. He even ignores your attempt at a friendly handshake. He ignores it all, shoves the papers holding your questions from your hand, and instead grabs you and hugs you tighter than he had ever hugged you before.

 

And it’s all you can do not to melt back into his embrace.

 

Instead, you squirm and shimmy with all your might. You yell and choke on your screams and tell him that this was unprofessional. You yell that you two had broken up. You yell that you didn’t want this. You yell, even though the tears fall from your eyes and your nose begins to run. You yell even though you find yourself raising your arms to hold him like he is holding you. You yell, even though your voice is hoarse, how much he didn’t know about you now. You yell that you changed and that you weren’t the same.

He only holds onto you and tells you he knows. He tells you that he’s not the same either. He tells you that he’s stronger now. He tells you that he was a jerk and he shouldn’t have ignored you. Shouldn’t have treated you like he had treated you. Shouldn't have taken you for granted. You can hear him gulp and feel his Adam’s apple move.

He asks if he can be by your side again. He doesn’t want to drag you along anymore, he wants to be with you. He tells you if you wanted him to drop it all he will. His travels, his late-nights, _his art_ , everything. He’ll drop everything. He’ll do anything. He just wants the permission to be with you again.

 

Your eyes are burning with salt and you pound your fist into his chest because it was your fault. You tell him that. You tell him that it was all _your_ fault. You were jealous. You were scared. You wanted his attention yet you couldn't tell him so because you were too fucking cowardly. You tell him you want him to keep painting only this time, you want to be by his side. You want to support him. You want to be there for him.

 

He’s sobbing with you the whole time.

 

* * *

 

He lays you down on his bed and you watch him, eyes wide as he moves above you. He starts with your shirt, which he almost shyly rolls up and up and up. He blushes as more and more of your skin becomes exposed and you can’t but laugh and tease him a little, asking if this was his first time painting on someone.

 

“Technically yes.” he mumbles. “Never painted on someone…I-I loved before.”

 

The shirt (your shirt) finally coming off. He places it next to him on the bed before hesitantly moving towards your pants. “Never stripped anyone either.” he confesses.

 

The pants are harder for him to get off because his hands are shaking _too much_ and it takes him a few tries to undo the button and un-zipper the fly. When he’s done he looks at you with those ruby eyes and cheeks of his and, staring at you the whole time, removes both your jeans and boxers. He gives you a nervous smile, taking in your flushed face and raises his hand to brush a loose curl from your cheek. “Love you.” he whispers.

You whisper those same words back to him. “Love you too.”

 

* * *

 

When he finally pulls himself back his eyes widen and they marvel all over the nakedness, the nudity, the exposed and open form that was you.

“Wow.” he whispers. “Wow…shit I just….” He looks away and apologizes, hand covering his face and asks you to give him a minute to calm himself down. “Wasn’t ready for-” he begins, choking on his words. You giggle again and tease him for his shyness and how innocent he, Dave Strider, truly was. Dave turns to glare at you, a retort on his lips, only to look at _all_ of you again and turn away, his face a deep ruby red.

 

“You’re impossible Karkat.” he mutters. “Truly impossible.”

 

He ends up glancing peeks at you for the next five minutes, as if not trusting or letting himself just stare, before finally getting up, wobbly and clumsily, to grab his paints. “R-red right?” he says, unscrewing the cap and squirting a little too much of the color on his palette. “Unless you want a different one because you’d look good in…uh…all…of them….” You roll your eyes and tell him yes, red would be perfect.

He gulps. “R-right. ‘Perfect.’ Uh…One red coming up.” He looks down at you while nervously swirling his brush in the paint. “Here goes…um…nothing…” he mutters and leaning down. “Tell me if this gets too uncomfortable Karkat.”

He barely touches you yet you find your breath catching as he does.

He starts with your chest and moves in swirls and patterns and soft movements that were so comforting and so wonderful that you can’t help but let out a soft whimper of _want_. He looks back up at your face with a surprised expression before moving the paintbrush further down you, to your thighs.

 

You let out a moan.

 

He grins a bit and continues on.

 

* * *

 

It’s better than when you paint yourself. It’s one hundred, one thousand, one million times better. Soon your reduced to a shivering, whimpering, moaning jumble of Karkat ooze and _you love it._

“Been wanting…this...” you pant out. “For a while-” You’re cut off with a sharp gasp when Dave, in a moment of spontaneity, kisses your exposed dick. You glared at him. “C-cheater…” you mumble as Dave sets down the paintbrush. He kisses you in the same spot and another breath of air escapes you.

“If you wanted this…Why didn’t you say so?” Dave asks, his hot breath making everything so much more _sensitive._ “Why Karkitty? Why?”

Your eyes shutter to a close and this time you mumble out a mess of “Too scared” and “Was embarrassed” and “Was too jealous.” You gasp again as those lips, his lips, kisses you (kisses your dick) again and again.

“I should’ve noticed it sooner.” Dave says sadly. “I should’ve done _this_ sooner.”

You open your eyes and look down at him, sitting there crestfallen and regretful, between your legs. “You’re here now though.” you whisper to him encouragingly. “You’re here…. and I’m here _now_ …”

He looks up at you with wide innocent eyes.

“Forever?” Dave asks and you see in him, once again, the cheeky, young, upperclassman that stole your freshman heart. The upperclassman that teased you relentlessly. The upperclassman that never stopped loving you.

“Of course you idiot.” you say smiling. “Forever…. and for always Dave.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was really fun to do, this whole writing for a week thing. I think I'm ready to go back to my poly trio though.

**Author's Note:**

> The title of this series was actually me thinking of how much fun's "tomorrow's" prompts were.


End file.
